


The angel tinkerer

by Lokuro



Series: Curse of Strahd Verse [3]
Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Angels, Fallen Angels, Other, Weird Biology, angel psychology, angel scientist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokuro/pseuds/Lokuro
Summary: It is always sad, and scary, and dangerous when angels go mad.
Series: Curse of Strahd Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802551
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The angel tinkerer

_ You don't know real delight until an angel has caressed your soul. It is more than a simple joy or an ordinary pleasure of the body; your very being is engulfed in light and kindness _ .

_ Your physical form is irrelevant, dull, almost a sacrilege to even think of its comfort, but you are distantly aware that all your muscles are relaxed, and your eyes are closed. You don't need them, your consciousness gives you all that you need to see. The vividness and the intensity of the imagery are so much more than your imperfect human sight could ever show you, and under closed eyelids you see fractals and colours, fast-moving and indescribably complex. Your perception reaches far beyond the shallow understanding of meaning, and the swirling shapes and patterns unveil the genuine truth, a revelation so beautiful it almost hurts to comprehend. With tears of gratitude, you embrace the blissful epiphany and open up to the gentle touch of the Divine _ .

_ Warmth pulses through the fibers of your exposed soul, soothing and stimulating at once. Delicate fingers are shifting through your memories, stroking every bruise that the cruel world has dealt to your soft core, to your most intimate part, where everybody is vulnerable and where not even the most adoring lover can ever reach. But this Eternal Light? It can. All-encompassing it fills every crack and every sorrow, and all defenses drop before its loving radiance. You feel so utterly loved that you could burst open with the sensation. Your mortal soul was never built to hold so much love, and it starts spilling out, dripping with oversaturated fragments of your soul _ .

_ A rip goes through your whole existence, as a thread is unwound from the fabric of your being, a piece torn apart with gentle grip and forceful intensity. For a moment, you feel the irretrievable loss of something so precious, aching despair threatens to swallow and drown the broken rest. The severed part — a useless limb, one that the Divine did not take — is still floating in the nothingness, surrounded by shifting fragments and overlapping lights which lost all their eternal meaning. You are still doused with love, but the rapture penetrated the fog of serenity, and love has nothing to hold on to. You let go. Empty, lost, drifting in a meaningless direction, towards the lights, what lights, scrambled thoughts, fragments, ill-defined geometry, nauseating lights, where should you drift, there is nothing, everything, there is Light, Eternal Light. _

The angel, recently known as the Abbot, held out a delicate hand and stroked the sweat-soaked hair of the human creature laying on his workbench and breathing heavily. It was unconscious and wet, but nothing to be alarmed about, all humanoids were like that, and the first failed experiments taught him to take special care with their flesh. As the Abbot walked away from the workbench, there was something small and shimmering cradled in the palm of his hand. Carefully, he closed his fingers around a pulsating glow of a sphere, so cautious as if it was a fragile little dragonfly with beautiful transparent wings, frail and feeble, but oh so sparkling. The Abbott smiled, and the room seemed brighter with his joy. A delightful fragment of a soul, encapsulating a loving memory. This little piece would fit so wonderfully into his new creation, making her even more unique. Flawless.

The Abbot felt into the void of Vasiliska's soul. It was always exciting to dive into the cool nothingness of her empty mind. The eerie desolation felt so cold on his soul, it was almost painful. His Light shivered, harried by the void, and he enjoyed the violent sensation for a moment or two — a human indulgence he picked up during his time in Barovia. Now to work. The emptiness inside Vasiliska was a perfect vessel, ready to be filled with handpicked, elite fragments. With the utmost care, he inserted the extracted peace of the human soul into the divine silence of her mind. The piece clicked into place, shifted, then shifted again, and the void felt heavy, irritated, clumsy. The Abbot frowned. The perfect symmetry of the nothingness was destroyed, and the gleaming fragment looked untidy. The void rejected this piece. It was too vulgar in its joy, too dazzling for the refined clockwork of Vasiliska's perfection. What a shame. The Abbot extracted the glowing sphere, and now its light was dimmed, flickering in uncertain, hesitant intervals. It would not survive the experiment.

With a merciful flicker of his fingers, he extinguished the light. Such a pity. The Abbot sighed and disregarded the experiment. It was no good to rush when creating pure perfection. And he still had time. He had all the time in the world.

  
  



End file.
